Damage Control
by hurricanedrunkk
Summary: Sherlock is having an argument with Lestrade about the legitimacy of emotional pain. John walks by and Sherlock asks him if they're comparable seeing as John's been shot before. John says yes, now Sherlock is determined to know why John thinks so.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My first Sherlock story and my second fan fiction ever (first being many years ago and forgotten, really) so I'd love reviews!  
Prompt from the Sherlock BBC Kink meme: John whump.

After Moriarty's string of phone calls, people attached to ticking time bombs, and series of puzzles, everyone's emotions had been strewn about and they needed time to recuperate. All the events of the past few days had dragged everyone out of their stupor and into the opposite direction of full on awareness. Except for Sherlock Holmes, of course. He was always fully aware of everything, moreso than anyone else, but not when it came to feeling things. He'd been called in on a new case now but the Yard seemed to be a bit out of sorts still. Sherlock had been arguing with Lestrade to get over it, caring about people wasn't going to be the thing to help them. After all, Sherlock did manage to save almost all of them (it wasn't his fault the old lady had tried to help him!) It was a part of the job, Lestrade and even the others should have gotten used to it by now. A week had already gone by and it was starting to interfere with any usefulness Lestrade demonstrated. Sherlock needed him to move on.

"It's all in your mind, it's simple to control!" Sherlock exclaimed, his hands wanting to shake the Detective but instead motioning that way without actually touching him.  
"Look Sherlock, we can't all be as emotionless as you and frankly I'm happy to keep it that way."  
"Oh, come on, hasn't enough time passed already? The grieving process should be complete by now. It was a few people, not an entire city full! Everyone else made it through."  
Lestrade's only response to this comment was a rolling of his eyes. Sherlock definitely had a way with words.

John was within earshot of the conversation and flashed back to a conversation he had had with Sherlock earlier that week regarding his lack of feelings. John had wondered how Sherlock could be so brilliant, understanding how people's emotions played in everything they did, reading everything and everyone so easily; and yet, he couldn't possess any emotions of his own or understand them beyond the chemistry or implications they held. Twelve totally random innocent people had died because of Moriarty's game. John had gotten so angry with Sherlock that morning. He didn't care. He admitted it. He just didn't care. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he is a freak.

_John was turning away, leaving, his frustration reaching its peak but then he felt the urge to question Sherlock on his motives._

"_There are lives at stake," he said as he braced himself on his armchair, "Sherlock. Actual human lives. Jus-just so I know, do you care about that at all?"  
Sherlock's eyebrows grew closer together in mild surprise, his hands pinned beneath his jaw, "Will caring about them help save them?"_

_He stared at John as he said this. He already was solving all the puzzles thrown his way, now John wanted him to care about the people being used for merely for their voice boxes too? You simply cannot have it both ways._

_John shook his head, his smile incredulous, "Nope."  
"Then I'll continue to not make that mistake," Sherlock responded matter of factly.  
"And you find that easy, do you?"  
"Yes. Very. Is that news to you?"  
"No," he shook his head again, sadly laughing to himself. Sadness that this man could never understand. "No."  
Sherlock held his gaze on John, merely lifting his head and after a pause declaring, "I've disappointed you."  
John wagged a finger at him, every smile and positive gesture he now made towards Sherlock reeking of irony, frustration and sarcasm. "'S good. That's good deduction. Yeah." John began to turn away, exasperated.  
"Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."_

John started walking away from the current crime scene, mulling over the last thing Sherlock had said, still trying to piece it together. Yes, he may not have cared about everyone but the fact still remained, rather than committing crimes, he was the one solving them and that had to count for something.

"There!" Sherlock pulled John over by his shoulders, the unexpected sensation sending tingles down John's spine, knocking him out of his daze. "John, you settle it, you've been shot! Is emotional pain comparable in any way to actual physical pain?"

Lestrade looked between the two, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly open, knowing the answer but not wanting to hear it. For once, it was obvious, and for once, Sherlock was the only one who couldn't see it. John stared up at Sherlock wondering how he could be so oblivious.

After a long pause of merely staring into Sherlock's eyes to see if there was any sign of understanding, anything at all, anything beyond the calculated and clinical, John realised there wasn't. So he decided to just get it over with and answer Sherlock. He tried not to think of all the things that had hurt him throughout his life, had hurt him so much more than a gunshot. Everyone forgetting his twelfth birthday, his parent's rejection of Harry at her coming out and their disapproval of his defending her, being rejected of his first romantic proposition, breaking up with his first love when he went off to war, having to endure military life without anyone he truly cared for, nightmares that haunted him almost every night, meeting a madman that hadn't the slightest idea… He pulled himself back, staring straight ahead and quietly said, "Yes." After a beat, he continued walking in the direction he had originally been going in. Sherlock had let him go and was looking after him as confusion spread across his face.

Sherlock hadn't said anything and Lestrade was going over what had just happened in his mind amazed at what Sherlock was missing. He raised his eyebrows and turned away, heading back over to his team to continue the consoling Sherlock had interrupted to instead try and "fix" him. If only Sherlock could just be _human _for once.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the follows and favourites, guys! I really wasn't expecting it, especially on my first story, but I appreciate it so much! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

0o0

By the time Sherlock entered reality again, John seemed to have disappeared. He had become engrossed in thoughts of what had just happened, replaying the scene repeatedly in his mind trying to figure out how John could have attested to that. How could someone feel emotional pain is comparable to the physical? How could a bullet blowing through you hurt as much as someone dying? But John had to know… He had to have the right answer… But John was also so emotional, he felt everything so deeply. He couldn't do really anything without feeling the effects in his core.

It had taken a life or death situation to reveal this to the detective but now he knew. He was John's brain. John was his heart.

Having no further deductions for the crime scene and wanting to simply escape into his mind, Sherlock took his cue to go back to Baker Street.

o0o

John had taken to the streets of London to clear his head. He was walking freely, without his cane, but feeling like he still needed some sort of support. He hated how Sherlock had been right about that. The limp had to be at least partly psychosomatic, and now this was starting to affect him. Of course not to the extent that he'd need the cane again, that would never happen so long as he had Sherlock, but sometimes when the younger man put particular pressure on him he'd have a slight mishap with his coordination. Nothing more than a light trip, a simple misstep, but he knew it was Sherlock's fault because of the fleeting loss of feeling in his leg that would cause these mishaps. That was how he would truly know if something was affecting him and Sherlock missing the obvious here was something that definitely always took its toll.

_In between all the long glances, the constant unwavering faith he placed in Sherlock, the way it felt that he was baring his soul to Sherlock whenever they'd stare at each other…_

He'd spent nights in bed thinking about this before. He'd always hope that by giving in to his thoughts that they'd finally free him from their clutches and he wouldn't have to think about those things again but his mind was never so kind.

_The fact that he would do anything for Sherlock, the fits of giggles they'd sometimes send the other into (when no one else could really make the pair laugh like that), the way they'd understood each other almost instantaneously upon meeting…_

John knew something wasn't _right _about their friendly interactions; there was something slightly _off_. Everyone they knew had taken it to mean they were in a relationship. John couldn't blame them; they did spend almost every waking hour together! And Sherlock would never deny anything. He always reminded John that he didn't care what others had to say, people always find something to talk about.

_The way Sherlock never cared about what anyone thought of him except for John…_

John would always (probably a bit too strongly) declare to anyone willing to listen that he wasn't gay, that they weren't dating, that they were just flatmates or friends or colleagues but always… always something platonic. He'd never overstep that boundary again.

He'd still sometimes, when his thoughts took hold, relive that night at Angelo's.  
When the world's only consulting detective thinks you're flirting with him and asking him out… he can't be wrong, can he? But he was married to his work.

It was all just so confusing! The man may not understand emotions that well but he had to understand that everything he did pointed away from what he proclaimed – _you can't say you're married and still go around flirting with another _– but these were the things he would have to keep to himself. He knew that Sherlock was incredibly inexperienced and so maybe he didn't actually realise that the way he acted was in conflict with his speech but he'd have to learn sooner or later.

But even if Sherlock had no idea, John had finally figured out one night where he himself stood.

He wasn't gay. He didn't see any other men that way. It was just Sherlock. It was only Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I felt you guys deserved a longer chapter after the particularly short one and this one beats them both! Thanks for the reviews and all the follows and favourites, I appreciate it ever so much.

0o0

When John had returned to the flat he arrived to the not unusual scene of Sherlock laying on the couch in his blue bathrobe, hands beneath his chin in a prayer position and eyes staring up at the ceiling vacantly.

The doctor wordlessly went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea and took it to his bedroom for the night. He didn't much feel like having to be in the room with Sherlock, not tonight. Sipping the remnants of the tea, he noticed the dregs and watched them swirl about forming a nonsensical but altogether interesting shape. He put the cup down and flicked off the lights, getting into bed, leg still slightly pulsating with the ache of that day. He anticipated the pain would all be over tomorrow and that thoughts of the question he'd been asked would be forgotten too. He tossed and turned in his dreams as dust filled images of a lanky man spread themselves throughout his unconscious.

Sherlock had since come to and could hear faint gasps, sighs and cries from the second floor. He had been listening to the sounds for the past two hours and decided to do something that was becoming increasingly less out of the ordinary – going upstairs and checking on John.

He didn't know when the habit exactly had started (that's a lie, he did, he just didn't want to think about this new-forming habit and what it could mean) but when he would hear the noises John sometimes made, he felt a strange sensation overtake him and the only way to get rid of it was to go and check on his flatmate.

He climbed the stairs carefully, not wanting to make a sound. John was a particularly light sleeper. When he'd reached the top, he stood outside the door that was open only a crack. The bed was partly visible – John was covered in a layer of sweat, mouth open and his stomach rising and falling quite quickly. Sherlock stood peering in for a bit longer until John seemed to have calmed down and then departed down the stairs to his usual spot in the living room to wait until morning.

o0o

That morning John made two servings of fried eggs and bacon accompanied by toast and jam with a cup of tea. He set down the dishes on the table, looking pleased with himself.

"Sherlock!"

He barely raised his eyes to look in John's direction, voice plainly bored, "Yes John?"

"I made some breakfast and you haven't eaten in three days. Only answer I'm accepting is you sitting down and eating!"

Sherlock audibly sighed, got up and went over to the table in the most dramatic fashion he could muster. John had just started consuming the food and Sherlock had to admit, he despised eating but the food looked, well, quite eatable. The two were taking in food in silence. John having laid the newspaper next to his meal was reading while using both hands for holding his fork and knife. Sherlock had a bite and, as his mind so often did, was thinking to no end. It hadn't stopped bothering him yet; this was another mystery to solve, one that seemed so simple upon first glance but so much harder with further inspection. That was one reason he liked John, he wasn't ordinary, he was somehow always full of surprises.

He waited until he finished chewing his second bite before bringing up the thing that had sent his mind racking for the past eleven hours.

"John?"

The older man looked away from the article he had been reading about two men that seemed to be eating each other alive, the start of the 'Zombie Apocalypse' some people claimed. Rubbish as usual, he'd seen that sort of thing when people were drugged up. They were usually stopped before it got to that point though.

"Yes?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together, the uncertainty of not knowing the solution hanging onto him. "What exactly did you _mean_ yesterday? Could you elaborate a bit further?"

"Yesterday, what?"

John knew perfectly well what Sherlock was asking but hoped maybe he could evade the subject instead by acting clueless. He was not so lucky.

Sherlock knew it was obvious what he meant, and that John understood, but decided to humour him.

"Emotional pain being comparable to the physical."

John looked at Sherlock before conceding, "Well, I know you've probably never gone through anything of the sort, but sometimes having something happen to you emotionally can induce actual physical pain. On the other hand, it can instead be brand new and unique phenomena that you've never felt before; they can send you into the highest high!" John lightly smiled while looking somewhere past Sherlock's head as he said this before pausing to finish. "And sometimes they can send you into the lowest lows," he looked back at Sherlock, "Yeah, being shot hurt like hell but…other things have hurt much worse."

After John made no intention to continue, Sherlock simply muttered a reply to indicate that he had heard him and they continued their meals.

He began pondering this novel information. 'Brand new and unique phenomena,' had he experienced that at all lately? He thought back to the previous night and recalled the sensations he felt in his body but not being able to understand what they were or why they were happening. Could they be some sort of indication of…feelings?

What would be a normal thing to feel that would cause you to check up on someone when they seem to be in distress?

Sadness? No, that's possible to be at play, of course, but not on its own. This was something a bit more complicated than mere sadness.  
Guilt? Also possible but what could Sherlock possibly be feeling guilty about? He's done things deemed by society as terrible but he's never felt any remorse for how he acts and he definitely wasn't going to start now.  
Worry? That… seemed to hit the nail right on the head. It was almost the same feeling he had had at the pool when the red light graced John's forehead, when he offered his life in exchange for Sherlock's, the feeling that almost went away when he tore off John's bomb-ridden jacket. But Sherlock hadn't been able to fully escape that feeling since.

He couldn't understand, though, how could his…worry…for John ever compare to being struck so hard you're on the ground barely breathing? As he got further lost in his cognitions, he remembered a moment when he'd been in such physical agony, a brush with death he had had a few years ago; then to the moment when he had felt such betrayal… hurt, even, when he thought John had been Moriarty. That fleeting moment when time seemed to have stood still and he had felt like a lost child as John spoke words that didn't seem to make sense emanating from his mouth.

Thankfully, it hadn't been John. John was ever faithful, his only friend, someone he could trust with his life. It was normal to feel worry for him, right? Then again, Sherlock was ever anything but normal.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry about the long wait! I'd run into some writer's block..

o0o

The following night John had woken up at the clutches of a particularly nasty dream, gasping for air. He rubbed both of his eyes awake and lay staring at the roof.

He tried to slow his breathing and relax. He heard a slight creak outside his door and sharply turned his attention to it. It was barely open and he couldn't see anything from his position. He assumed it was nothing. He wanted it to be nothing. He didn't need anything else to frighten him after what he'd just woken from.

Outside the door, Sherlock had noticed John's waking and didn't want to be seen. He tried to move as quietly as possible out of the door's view but John had detected something moving in that doorway. Luckily, he hadn't detected Sherlock. _Still too tired,_ he supposed. He realised the only way to get out of there was for John to fall back asleep. So he waited, forty five minutes and only a slim depletion in his stamina later, Sherlock went to his room. He didn't often go there but felt it the best place to remain undisturbed as he gathered his thoughts.

Ever since his conversation with John and his realisation that he _cared_ for John, he had been trying to understand what this all meant. He wasn't used to caring about people, why did John have to be so special? Why couldn't he just be like everyone else? Sherlock worried it would interfere with his usual daily proceedings, what if it would cloud his judgement or make him even the slightest less adept at deducing? He couldn't bear the thought.

Sentiment was good for figuring out motive, not so good for brainwork. He hoped against all odds that this attachment to John would lessen but it seemed a bit naïve to think that when they were sewn at the hip.

o0o

They received a case the next day, the Yard were once again out of their depths. Lestrade ran over to Baker Street asking for Sherlock's help. They needed to find a woman, Charlene Sutherland.

Sherlock pulled up a photo of her on his mobile and set off with John. She had evaded arrest for months but had finally left a loose end. Now that Sherlock had been allowed onto the case, he wouldn't allow it to remain unsolved for very much longer. Sherlock deduced, based off of some CCTV footage she had been caught on, where her place of business would be. Her hair was windswept indicating she had been near the ocean where the breeze would send it tumbling every which way; her makeup had become slightly run down and smudged thanks to the rain that had occurred right at the ocean fifteen minutes prior; and her clothes were a bit heavier than the typical winter's gear to handle all that excess wind.

They had gotten some remnants of sand from her footprints and upon further analysis it was found to be acidic soil. The lone warehouse remaining by the London Docklands was the only place that she could have been coming from.

The pair arrived at the warehouse. She had left someone she was using to smuggle art knowledgeable of what they shouldn't have been and would quickly realise her error. They waited for their prey and when they saw her enter one of the warehouses they snuck in after.

It was dank, dark and vast. They sidled behind boxes to not be noticed. Charlene was conversing with a man older than her. She was an unsavoury character, quick to anger. John felt for his gun from the outside of his pocket, making sure it was there.

They came in halfway through the negotiation. She was saying to him, "—I promise to make it much easier. Do we have a deal?"

The latter rubbed his hands together nervously, "Erm, I'm not sure I can do that…at least not just yet."

"And why is that exactly?" Her face contorted unpleasantly as she took a step forward looming over him. Her eyes bore into his, John could feel the hole she was cutting through the man. Suddenly, her hand flew across his face and even they could feel the sting of it.

"Y-yes, madam."

_Quick compliance,_ Sherlock thought as one side of his mouth twitched upwards. He was watching her astutely. She told the man he could go and waited for him to leave. She proceeded to take out a cigarette while typing away on her phone. Her face looked pleased upon receiving the third text message and Sherlock wanted to wipe the happiness off her countenance and replace it upon his own.

John had texted Lestrade that they had indeed found her there and was thankful for his bit of quick thinking. If anything happened, _God forbid_, he wanted to know someone would be on their way.

Sherlock straightened up abruptly and began walking over. John rolled his eyes and sighed, Charlene looked at Sherlock vilely.

"Who are you?" she barked.

"Someone who's brought your unlawful days to an end."

Her eyes narrowed and she strode closer to him. John closed his eyes tightly, _why does he always have to do things on impulse? He thinks everything through but when it comes time to something that could affect his life permanently, he goes ahead without thinking._ He opened his eyes again and could barely hear Sherlock's baritone from how far they had gotten.

Her face snapped and John knew that was the end of any pleasantries. He hoped Lestrade would be there soon to take over. He'd been waiting for Sherlock's signal and now the time had come. The woman began fighting him and though Sherlock could hold his own, John really didn't want this to last very long.

She heard when John came out and like that, she flipped a gun and pointed it at him.

"Who else is crawling in here? Show yourselves!"

"There is no one else," Sherlock assured her.

"As if I'm going to trust you…" Her eyes were growing wilder by the second and she was aiming the gun straight at John.

Sherlock and John's eyes met, a silent agreement was made. Sherlock made a sudden movement and John took out his gun quickly pointing it at her. She'd looked at the detective when she should've kept her eye on the doctor and now they were in equally bad positions.

Lestrade and the Yard rushed in and Charlene panicked. Her finger slipped as she began turning and she fired a bullet in John's direction. He fell to the floor hoping it would be quick enough to avoid the bullet. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he caught his breath, running over to John. The sound of the bullet clanking against the metallic floor echoed throughout the building.

"Are you alright John?" Sherlock felt some blood on John's arm. He tore off his jacket seeking to find where the source was. John had to be alright. He had to be.

He'd only been grazed luckily. Thank goodness for those layers. No lasting damage.

John faltered as he noticed Sherlock's desperation. He looked up into his flatmate's eyes, "yeah.. I'm alright," somewhat of a smirk painted on his face. "Nothing permanent, right?"

"No, you're going to be fine John." A subtle smile nibbled at the younger's face as he let out a deep breath.

The thought of possibly losing John had almost sent Sherlock into lockdown mode. He couldn't think how he would ever revert back to his old way of living. He could barely remember life before John. Or, he remembered, but he just didn't understand anymore how he had done it. How he had gone through so much of his life without John, it just didn't seem conceivable anymore. Sherlock was growing tired of his friend's life being put in danger on more than one occasion. He wanted John to always be safe, he didn't want to ever bring him into harm's way but he needed him on cases. He needed him by his side.

o0o

A few days later with some heavy bandaging to soothe Sherlock's mind, John went to work. Sherlock had wanted him to stay home a bit more just so he could be sure. He wanted John to be in tip top condition when he went back to work but John had argued that he felt fine and that Sherlock wasn't his mum.

While John was at work, Mycroft invited himself over to 221B. Sherlock was sat on the floor of the lounge gazing out the window. Mycroft casually strutted over to one of the armchairs and took a seat. Sherlock hadn't so much as flinched since his brother's entrance.

"Hello dear brother," the eldest coolly said.

Sherlock's face contorted into a rather displeased expression.

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Always so pleasant to see you Sherlock."

The detective huffed in reply.

"I don't mean to intrude on…personal matters—"

"Oh, you don't? Then why are you here Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson won't be making tea and jam for another three hours and I can't imagine you have enough free time to get here early, I haven't even heard a nuclear explosion yet!"

Mycroft's face barely changed but he knew his brother and knew this wouldn't be simple.

"It's just I seem to have noticed that you have taken upon yourself a rather…unorthodox habit."

Sherlock's ears perked but he still wouldn't turn to face his brother.

"And, pray tell, what is this habit?"

Mycroft paused before adding on, knowing it could very well be his end all.

"You seem to be standing outside a certain army doctor's door at night watching him sleep and I cannot help but wonder _why_."

Sherlock's body became stiff and he shut his eyes firmly hoping that when he opened them his brother would be gone. It was childish but when it involved Mycroft, it always was.

He opened them and still felt Mycroft's eye on him. He stood up and swiftly went over to the armchair opposite and sat down.

"Lovely to know your _watchful eye_," he punctuated the two words with disdain, "is on me at all possible moments of my life."

Mycroft smirked at his brother and inquired again.

"Always. Now please explain to me, why?"

"I don't have to explain anything to you!"

Mycroft's head tilted downwards but his eyes remained focused on Sherlock.

"Of course not."

His fingers snapped around his umbrella as he got up. He bid farewell to Sherlock and left. Five minutes later the younger brother's mobile sounded.

_If you can't tell me, at the very least tell yourself.  
MH_


	5. Chapter 5

I've been focusing on school but I also forgot a bit about this story…as always, thank you for favourites and follows! I adore receiving reviews.

0o0

Sherlock read his brother's text again.

'_If you can't tell me, at the very least tell yourself.'_ _Tell myself what? What is he implying? There's nothing strange about watching John to check up on him. If I made those noises when I slept I'm sure Mycroft would be worried too. I'm just doing what…friends do. Nothing strange._

His thoughts paused and then he realised what the elder might be suggesting.

_Worried…That is rather out of place…_

Suddenly Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted and he received a text message from a far less annoying person.

_Want Chinese tonight?  
JW_

Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted his flatmate getting food for them for now. He didn't want him carrying things with that bandaged arm. Maybe, he thought, he could try to do something for John and it would also make him feel better. He didn't like seeing John hurt and though he thought he was fooling Sherlock, he saw through.

So what if he was worried for John? He could care for someone. It's just one person, it wouldn't interfere with anything. John worries for Sherlock too and he still manages to be a great doctor. Sherlock can surely remain just as perceptive as always.

_I'll have something prepared for when you arrive instead.  
SH_

_Really? What's gotten into you?  
JW_

_Can't appreciate a day off of food duty?  
SH_

_Alright, thanks.  
JW_

John still had two hours before he would get home so Sherlock had plenty of time. He put on his coat, threw his scarf around his neck and set out onto London. He rang up Angelo's asking that there be a special order of pasta and garlic bread waiting for him to pick up. As he was on his way, he saw in the window of a shop a minute, black notebook. It was small enough to fit in a coat pocket and had a leather cover. He decided to take a slight detour and go inside the shop, he had time to spare.

Sherlock picked it up to look inside and found it came with an attached pencil; inside was yellow tinted lined paper, it smelt like one of Sherlock's most useful biology books, worn but teeming with information-that-could-be. In the top right corner of every page was typed "Day" with a space next to it to be filled in.

Sherlock bought it thinking John might enjoy it. He could use it to take down notes for his blog or write on the spot thoughts and whatever else, plus it looked tasteful and wasn't flashy. That was just what John would like and getting him a little gift might lift his spirits.

Sherlock picked up the order at Angelo's; it was enough to last for more than one day which was always preferred, Sherlock didn't cook and John didn't like to every day. He arrived back at 221B and checked the time; John should be on his way home already.

Sherlock put the food out onto two plates and set them on the table, leaving the gift bag inconspicuously on John's chair. Sherlock sat down and waited for his flatmate to arrive, and ten minutes later heard the door opening.

"Mmm, something smells good," John said as he climbed up the stairs. Sherlock could hear John's smile and smiled back, looking towards the stairs, setting his eyes on John once he was visible. John's smile grew wider, "Looks good too!"

He set down his things in his room and returned, pulling his chair back. He almost sat when he noticed the bag. He looked at Sherlock and quirked an eyebrow with half a smile, "What's this?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock teased.

John smirked, picking it up. He sat down and pulled out the notebook. He opened it and inside was a small card reading: "I hope this will serve you purpose and aid in your writing – Sherlock." The doctor smiled slightly to himself and flipped through a few pages before looking back at his flatmate.

"This is really nice Sherlock. Thank you." He reached over and gave the younger man's shoulder a squeeze of gratitude. He set the notebook back in the bag and they proceeded to eat, John chattering about the happenings of work that day.

Sherlock was glad John hadn't questioned him on why he bought something for him so sporadically and was surprised at the electricity he felt run through his body when John touched him. He could still feel his flatmate's hand in the spot where he'd been touched and wanted to feel it again.

John went to bed that night with the notebook in hand. He left his bedside light on and thought of what he would write. He decided he would keep this as a personal journal for himself. If the necessity ever struck, he could write at any time. It was small so he could keep it on his person at all times.

_Day 1_

_Sherlock got me this notebook. I'm not sure what brought this on but I really appreciate it. He seems to be becoming more sentimental, buying me gifts for no reason and even being so caring (and worrisome) about my health. It's been nicer than when he seemed to not care, it almost gives me some hope…and to see what lies under his façade of indifference is always nice. He doesn't expose himself like this often and for the moments when he allows me to see behind the curtains, I am grateful._

He put the pencil back into its space and placed the notebook under his pillow. He turned the light off and went to sleep.

0o0

John proceeded to write his daily thoughts in the notebook every night, he was struck into a routine and it actually helped him. Since his blog had become so viewable in the public eye, he couldn't always write _everything _he wanted to and this was a good medium to write his innermost thoughts. It allowed him to organise all the day's happenings and his perceptions on them. It was proving to be quite helpful.

_Day 16_

_We solved a case today and it was rather mad but I'll save the details of that for my blog. What I want to write here is something I was struggling a bit with…I had a few deductions of my own today (ha, Sherlock isn't the only brilliant one) but I'm not sure what to make of what I noticed happen from my doing them. I suppose hanging around Sherlock has allowed him to rub off on me (not as much as I'd like sometimes...)  
So, I was doing those deductions in a bit of a rapid-fire like Sherlock often does (though I still can't deduce where someone works from the stain on their tie) and afterwards, he was just looking at me. _Staring _at me, I should say. I'll admit, I often go looking for signs that would benefit me but this definitely happened. His eyes were dilated and his breathing pattern changed to one like he was out of breath, he was even sweating some and it was pretty cold today. Now, I'm a doctor and I can tell the basic signs of lust but I just can't see them coming from _Sherlock. _Has something changed and I haven't noticed?_

And at that sentence, he hesitated and thought. He went back and read through his past entries and realised something _had _changed and he _hadn't _noticed.

0o0

Sherlock had made a mistake today. He had allowed himself to really _feel _something and for his body to experience it. He had just become entranced by John. He couldn't help it for whatever reason. John had made some deductions and they had both physically and mentally stimulated Sherlock. He wasn't used to these feelings; he hadn't ever felt them before actually. He knew what they were: feelings of attraction. Years of noticing them in others and mocking people for having them, and here he was, just the same. He should've known if he were to ever become attracted to someone, one reason would certainly be their brain…and John's brain had been beautiful today. When he finished he even looked at the detective for approval and Sherlock could barely muster a nod of the head. He had been trying to calm himself down, definitely before John could notice his loss of control but he had failed.

He was gawking at John and noticing every little thing about him that he had sometimes missed. The way some tufts of hair curled under his ears, the way this jumper Ms. Hudson had knitted for him was exposing some of his neck, the absolute clarity in his eyes. John was beautiful. How had he missed this? Sure, he had _observed _these things before but he hadn't _seen_ them. He was letting his emotions take some rein and he wasn't sure whether he liked it. But then John smiled so sincerely at him that he knew he did. He wanted to feel this way more.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I was thinking what if I did a companion series to this that were John's notebook entries? Would anyone be interested? Mind, I don't guarantee I'll do it but if anyone's interested I can certainly try.

I hope my canonical references are noticed and understood. Please, please review! Thanks so much for follows and favourites.

0o0

_Day 20_

_Sherlock's signs of – well, I still don't know what else to call them and they seem to be growing more obvious – lust have continued. I don't want to think it's just me and it's all in my head but it's a very real possibility isn't it? I don't want to get ahead of myself…I'm just waiting for some sort of sign. Something that'll prove to me that he does feel something for me as more than a friend because I can't tell anymore. Sometimes I catch him staring at me for more than a couple seconds or trying to be helpful around the house after noticing the lack of help bothers me (which, regardless, is great and I want to continue) or even brushing against me more._

_I just need a definite sign…_

0o0

One day while John was in the shower and Sherlock was not, he got curious. He entered John's room and looked around, he was risking discovery if John decided to come out for any reason. As expected, the item in question was not easily spotted. He quietly checked under his flatmate's pillow, deducing it would be there what with the importance and secrecy the army doctor had placed upon the item. This was probably one of the few times in a day that it was not on John's person.

Sherlock grabbed the notebook he had purchased for the doctor almost a month ago, inquisitive as to what the blogger had been writing. One thing he had determined was that whatever it was; it definitely had not been cases.

The scientist opened it up, starting to read it from the beginning. He was a quick reader and finished up to day 20, yesterday. As he went on, he wasn't sure if he wanted to read this, it seemed too much but his curiosity urged him to plunge on. Most of it was John writing stream of consciousness and usually that consciousness involved his feelings.

His unresolved feelings.

For Sherlock.

He wasn't sure how to feel about it but his thoughts were halted when he heard the shower turn off. He hastily left the room and went to his own, the place he could always be guaranteed absolute solitude, to continue pursuing these thoughts.

John had declared his feelings for Sherlock in the notebook increasingly as Sherlock had increasingly lost restraint on his emotions. Anytime he would demonstrate this lack of willpower by texting John more, sitting closer to him or trying to get him out of work, the blogger had noticed and his feelings had responded in kind.

At the same time, Sherlock found it difficult to believe that John had written these entries. He was a good man, smart and kind and good looking, surely he could find someone else to fall for? Why would he choose Sherlock of all people as the object of his affections? Stiff, robotic and rude. He lacked John's social graces and that didn't bother him though they sometimes bothered John; he was stubborn as all hell and surely no one admired that trait; and he knew everything about anyone in a five second sweep of their clothes, face, office or what-have-you. Being Sherlock's partner surely wouldn't be an easy task.

But despite all of that, Sherlock still had the biggest grin on his face that he just couldn't seem to remove. John seemed to want him, just as Sherlock did him.

0o0

_Day 21_

_All day today Sherlock seems to have been in an extraordinarily good mood, not really sure why. I asked him if he was alright (yeah, him being happy without a murder is actually a cause for concern) and he said, "Absolutely." I'm glad to see him so happy but I'm just wondering what it could be. From what I can tell, nothing unusual occurred today. As I said, no cases, Mycroft came 'round (or rather, I was told to) for one of our usual "meetings," and he continued working on his skull decay experiments._

_I actually had a kip today, always enjoy when I get the time for that, and I had the oddest dream. Sherlock and I were working on various cases and we were going 'round London working on them and halfway through he took me by the hand and didn't stop. I really liked that. And then suddenly we were flying and I almost plummeted to my death, nothing to worry about of course. But then we somehow came back to life (don't ask me how) and had to escape a legion of turtles (I did say it was odd!) and then we stopped in an alleyway when I got tired. We both were standing there, gasping for breath and then…I pushed him against the wall and we kissed yeah really strange as I said no clue what my brain's doing._

John looked up, away from the pages, blinking back tears and thought to himself, _I'd really like that though._

He placed the pen back inside and closed the notebook, tucking it under his pillow before flicking off the light and going to sleep. He wanted it so badly.

Two hours later Sherlock was stood at John's door, he no longer restrained himself from checking on John. He no longer hid his reasons for doing it to his brain. Yes, he wanted to make sure John was alright but he also enjoyed marvelling in the army doctor's presence. Watching him put his mind at ease, especially when he was so much calmer. He had noticed ever since he took to writing his personal thoughts in that notebook his sleep had been better. Not perfect, but better.

He wanted John to feel better, he wanted John to get through a night without any pain or memories or flashbacks. He deserved that much; he was such a wonderful man.

0o0

Sherlock's mind was racing, John had been texting someone all day but it seemed to be someone new and judging from the expressions he possessed as he read them, female. This tinge of jealousy felt alien to Sherlock, he was beginning to understand how emotions could overrule the physical. He didn't feel the two were exactly comparable but the sting he felt every time John would pick up the phone was unbearable by that point.

He had tried to attract his attention away from the mobile but the task proved to be impossible. He had even tried to interrupt by texting him but John only looked up at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow and an expression of reprimand before looking back to his mobile. When the conversation seemed to have concluded, the detective's pulse lowered and he felt the green within him flowing away. He stood up and headed over to the blogger.

Finally, John reached for his laptop and began to focus on something else. He opened it up and began writing a new blog entry, "The Bournemouth Dale Mystery." It was a case Lestrade had summoned them for and they had just wrapped up the day previous. He began recounting the story.

_There was an Australian landowner who had been murdered outside in the middle of the night. This man's son was thought to be the culprit so why are they calling us, right? There was plenty of evidence but of course Sherlock determined there had to be a third party, that it wasn't the son at all._

Sherlock was perched over John's shoulder watching him type. John wasn't surprised as Sherlock often liked to read the entries and make his suggestions. Of course, these suggestions always involved John dulling the story until there was no excitement or emotion left, but it was Sherlock after all. He wasn't shocked. The detective wanted his cases to be told as they were: strict facts, logic and clues. No romanticising of events or extra details.

It seemed that more recently the younger man would reside over his shoulder for much longer periods of time, usually for most of the writing, reading everything as it was typed. While this didn't bother John and he had, in fact, grown accustomed to it, he was still surprised by it. He had even twice (yes, the doctor was counting) rested his chin on the doctor's shoulder, not for too long but for maybe ten seconds or so before abruptly lifting his head and leaving. He would come back quite quickly though.

Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of John's feeble fingers across the keyboard.

_You would think with all the typing he does that he would have gotten faster by now._

He flicked his eyes upward, towards the screen.

_Jimmy, the son, said the testimonials of the witnesses were accurate but that he had gone to the woods to hunt, not to meet up with his father. Then he heard his father yelling 'cooee'—_

"John?" Sherlock interrupted the doctor's train of thought. "The sound was a 'cooah,' not 'cooee.'"

John looked through his peripherals with suspicion adorning his face. He didn't want to turn his head and accidentally brush his lips against Sherlock's face, which could startle the detective away for a day or two.

"Can you repeat that?" John asked sarcastically but Sherlock missed it.

"'Cooah,' John. Do keep up. It's not difficult."

"You know what else isn't? Recognising sarcasm." John smirked, "You might want to spend more time honing your skills on that."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, standing up straight and walking away.

"Just trying to help you get the facts straight since you seem to often get confused by them," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

He continued walking away and regretted saying that. Sometimes he was just so habituated to having his defences up he couldn't help his instinctual responses. They'd become ingrained and even though he knew John was only teasing, his mind sometimes forgot.

"I get confused by them? That's funny since you're the one who asks me to come on cases. I'm guessing that's so I can _help _you."

Sherlock stood still.

"Don't be naïve John, sometimes I want an audience." Again, it came out straightaway. He didn't have to think about it.

John laughed. It wasn't a joyful laugh. He put down his computer, stood up and took a few steps in Sherlock's direction, staring at his back.

"I'm glad I feed your ego so much, not that you enjoy my company or anything. God knows everything you do is an act. How _do_ you function without having feelings for anyone or anything?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at John. He was looking at Sherlock with frustration. The scientist lamented his words and wanted to forget this petty row they were having. He took a few steps towards John. He was looking down at the older man and could only think of how he wanted to get closer.

This time he thought his response through before just spitting something out. He hesitated but the discovery of the notebook had been mulling around in his mind. He simply wanted to tell John he, too, felt the same way.

"I do have feelings," he said this and took a step towards John.

They were close.

"I just keep them under control," another step.

Now the detective could feel John's breath on his neck. He was looking down into John's glistening eyes that hung on to the end of every word, anticipating Sherlock's mouth to continue speaking. He could feel his self-control unravelling. John was looking at the taller man's lips and unconsciously licked his own.

Sherlock saw this, saw the sweat forming at his brow, and felt the stirrings within him and decided now was the time for the plunge into the abyss. He didn't know what would happen on the other side, if there was one but he was willing to find out.

"Most of the time," Sherlock completed his thought.

The taller man leaned down and placed his lips upon the other tentatively. He took the detective's face in his hands and slowly deepened the kiss. They both felt surges of electricity hitting them and couldn't believe the other was reciprocating. The kiss was nothing too heavy, soft and sweet. Sherlock loved the feeling of John's hands on him and John loved the feel of Sherlock's lips, especially on his.

He felt as soon as the kiss ended it would all be over and they would go back to being friends. They would fall into an uncomfortable stage with each other for a while but revert back to normal soon enough. He didn't want to have to avoid John for a "proper" amount of time after but his thoughts were running through his mind a thousand per second. He was foreseeing every possible path this could take and wasn't so sure of his choice anymore. What if John changed his mind afterwards? What if the realisation of what he had been thinking about wouldn't match up to his expectations or he realised he was making a mistake? What if he realised that they were better off as friends?

As if to brush this matter aside from the scientist's mind, John ran his tongue over Sherlock's lips and the younger man gasped, the pleasure he felt was unlike any other. This wasn't like getting high; this was an entirely new feeling and one to rival it. The blogger effortlessly slipped his tongue past the walls of teeth, smiling into the kiss. The detective returned the movement and all doubt left his mind. They were enjoying it, _he _was enjoying it. This man he had come to find irresistible as the days lingered was enjoying interlocking himself with the detective in the most physical sense. Sherlock had never expected this to happen.

John's head was dizzy with euphoria, he never thought, never _could _think that Sherlock bloody Holmes would be kissing _him_. Would _initiate _a kiss with him! No matter how many times his mind had gone there when he would doze off or daydream or even fantasise, he never thought it could feasibly happen. This didn't even compare to what he'd imagined. Sherlock's lips were perfect curves and so supple, his hair felt amazing to the touch as it wrapped around his fingers and his cheekbones weren't sharp at all.

This was most definitely a sign running smack into John and banging him over the head with it. Everything he'd been noticing had been right.

Once they ran out of breath, they separated themselves but didn't want it to be over. They looked at and away from each other both pleased and embarrassed.

John decided to break the silence since Sherlock had been the one to start the kiss.

"Well, that was nice," he chuckled, a hand nervously scratching at his neck.

_Nice is an understatement._

As this line of thought passed through the blogger's mind Sherlock uttered the same one aloud. They both laughed anxiously and Sherlock continued speaking, his eyes searching John's for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry about starting that paltry argument John. I was merely taking out some frustration on you. Forgive me?"

John knew it had been a thoughtless argument and couldn't hold it over him, especially after what had just happened. Plus, how often did Sherlock Holmes kiss him _and _apologise?

"Absolutely," he looked up, smiling. "I do have one favour to ask of you though."

"Anything."

"Could we, uh…could we do that again?" John looked down. He had enjoyed the kiss massively and after not having felt anything like this before, he wanted it even more and he wanted it soon.

"I can do you that favour," Sherlock teased, closing the gap between them.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I have started the companion piece to this story of John's notebook entries, so if you care to read that, be sure to check my stories! Thanks for all the lovely reviews last chapter; never got so many before, hope to just as many this time around too. ;) Thanks for follows and favourites as well!

0o0

John and Sherlock ended up kissing each other many more times. By the end of it, their faces were flushed, hair and clothes ruffled, out of breath and they were clung onto each other. John's hands were gripped tightly into Sherlock's white button down, his warm breath on Sherlock's neck. The younger man had a hand wrapped around the doctor's neck and the other digging into his hip but neither of them wanted to stop. They kept locking and unlocking at the lips as if they would never see each other again, or at least not be able to lay a finger on each other, and thusly they did not want to stop.

Their eyes were linked and carefully studying the other, like animals predicting their prey's next move. The doctor made the first one and coyly pushed the detective in the direction of a wall. He leapt onto the brunette's mouth and his hand went back into that head of hair, exploring the unruliness of those curls. The detective grabbed onto both of John's hips and held tightly. Their tongues glided past each other taking turns of exploring the other's mouth; John tasted like mint, Sherlock like metal. When it was the older man's turn to take the journey into the younger's mouth, the latter swiftly spun them 180 degrees and pushed the doctor against the wall.

John half-smiled, he wasn't surprised, Sherlock liked being in control. The detective pulled John's hips slightly into his and pressed himself against his flatmate. John's eyebrows rose for a moment at the sudden stimulation, never taking Sherlock for a sexual being. Then again, he wouldn't have taken Sherlock for someone who enjoyed kissing either.

The kiss grew deeper, the movements more frantic, the breaths uneven and soon John was pinned against the wall with no room for escape as Sherlock's body was entirely on top of his. The younger man had now taken to licking John's neck and John was moaning into the otherwise empty flat. He was grabbing onto every part of Sherlock's body, marking him through the clothes, reminders of the feelings he was giving John. Upon a particularly hard grab, the scientist accidentally bit down onto the doctor's neck but was pleased by the response.

John let out a loud groan and his eyes rolled back as his eyes shut; Sherlock surely didn't know but John's neck was his most sensitive spot and biting was what usually sent him over the edge. The brunette quickly picked up on this and put away this fact in his mind palace. He ran his tongue over the bitten spot and John sucked in his breath.

Through gritted teeth John whispered, "Harder."

Sherlock paused without moving his head from the current position and repeated, "Harder?"

John grunted and nodded his head once, remaining with his head tilted upwards, giving Sherlock plenty of room to go at. The detective bit down firmer and grabbed hold of one of John's wrists – his pulse was racing. He _really _was enjoying this. He sucked on John's neck in intervals of ten seconds before going back up and kissing John full on the mouth one last time. They loosely wrapped their arms around each other and rested their foreheads against each other. Once the younger man had left the pink mark on the good doctor, they both felt satisfied, for now anyway.

The blonde cleared his throat.

"I, uh, I really liked that," he laughed.

"Me too," Sherlock's head was tilted downwards but his eyes looking straight into John's.

The doctor smiled.

Sherlock walked over to the couch and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked straight ahead for several minutes before beginning.

"I don't want this to be the last time John. I don't want things to go 'back to normal' after this. Is…is that alright?"

John walked over and sat beside Sherlock. "Tha-that's perfectly alright Sherlock. I want things to continue going in this direction."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he paused. "Yeah. I…I've been waiting for this Sherlock. I mean, I didn't think it would ever happen but my god, how I wanted it to. You…you don't even know Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over at John, his face steady but his eyes swirling with colour. He felt like there was something between them, tying them together, marking them as counterparts. Two parts of a whole.

"Remember that day when you asked me if being shot could be compared to being hurt emotionally?"

Sherlock nodded.

"The reason I was so…so hurt, was because I was thinking about you. I-I wanted you so badly, I wanted to be with you but you told me you were 'married to your work,' and I knew I could never have you. And that hurt me Sherlock. That hurt me a bloody lot. Still does."

John's eyes were watery and he had stopped looking at the man he had just had his hands all over. He was blinking in quick succession hoping no water would flow from his eyes and put his head in his hands.

The scientist regretted never having realised that he had made such an impact on his flatmate; if he had known he even liked him that much… Sure, they were friends, but John didn't seem to be too obvious in his feelings for him. He wouldn't have ever prolonged this had he known.

He put a hand on the doctor's back and softly rubbed. _I think this is supposed to make him feel better...I hope it does._

After a minute, John lifted his head and rubbed at his eyes, clearing them of water. He looked at Sherlock and softly smiled. The brunette's eyes were trained upon John's but the detective looked away, blushing to himself and muttering something about the "idiotic grin" on John's face. He laughed and took Sherlock's hand into his, lacing their fingers. The scientist was not used to this and was at first stiff but slowly relaxed into it. He didn't only want to kiss John and be physical; he wanted them to be together.


End file.
